Firewhisky nights
by Chysralin
Summary: The bottle teetered dangerously, but did not fall, and Firewhisky sloshed against its rim before settling down. In a second, it was as though nothing had happened. The radio, an ordinary Wizarding radio, played in the background. Inspired by Glen Wee's "Send Me An Angel".


They were dead and all he could do was stare into a bottle.

Green eyes bore into the darkened amber liquid, as though it would hold the answers to their death. It gave none. What answers did he seek anyways? There was no question to be asked, no meaning to be found. They had moved on, onto wherever their next adventure may be.

And yet, that did not change the weight in his heart, heavy chains that _choked_ and _tore_ and left him gasping for air. He had forgotten how to breathe, it seemed – and for a moment his mind swam and black spots danced in front of his eyes and _this was not how death felt_. His lungs heaved and air rushed into his body, the bottle in his grasp slipping, slipping, threatening to fall.

The bottle teetered dangerously, but did not fall, and Firewhisky sloshed against its rim before settling down. In a second, it was as though nothing had happened. The radio, an ordinary Wizarding radio, played in the background.

 _Silent kisses, and lonely wishes,_

 _To get me through the night._

 _Slowly reeling, a life endearing, coming back from the fight._

 _There's never been a heaven here on earth that's there to teach us how to fly. Fly—_

Harry took another long drink, and felt a thousand names ( _Remus Sirius Lily James Cedric Colin…)_ burn its way down his throat, searing, branding. He considered smashing the bottle against the kitchen wall – Grimmauld Place had taken much worse in the past. The wall, covered in a dark green wallpaper that might have gone out of fashion in the seventies, already bore numerous battle scars from bottles and spells. The floor below was already littered with glass from the same day – this would not be the first bottle to meet its end. His hand twitched, but did not move. He was fine, honestly.

But they weren't. They weren't and he was and they had _fought_ and he had _died_ _too_. Only somehow, by some cursed twist of fate, he was brought back to live. And they weren't.

Was he upset by the fact that they had not – would not – come back, or was he broken by the fact that _he wasn't._ That he still had to deal with this mockery of life while they were someplace better.

 _An arm that's nearing life endearing, coming back from the fight._

 _A steady kneeling, a hopeful healing, darkness fades into light._

 _Every moment spent alone I feel my vision breaking up in two._

He hadn't slept in weeks. Plagued by nightmares, of green light and high cold laughter and the faces of what could be. Even worse, perhaps, were the good dreams – of a happy family and alive, laughing faces and _Fred had so much potential, so much life left in him and he would never laugh again_. On the rare day where these dreams floated into his mind, he found himself waking up with tears streaming down his face.

 _Every time I close my eyes and listen out I dream of only you. You—_

 _Will I ever have to call?_

 _Is there anyone at all?_

Only, them being gone meant that you were left with memories that were never enough. He had longed to know, who was Albus Dumbledore? He had spent months raging at the man – screaming in the confines of his room and mind. How dare he leave Harry with such a burden, how dare he not tell Harry that he had to die, that he was a horcrux. Why hadn't he done more? There was so much he didn't know of the man. A man who, despite his many flaws, had been the closest thing to a mentor, a grandfather, that Harry ever had. The faded memory of twinkling blue eyes and half-moon spectacles always seemed dulled by time. The bottle was empty. No matter, it's not like he could remember anyways. He reached for another bottle, _I must not tell lies_ gleaming as his hand clasped the neck of the bottle and he unsteadily pulled it towards himself, sending more drink spilling onto the table.

He would have used his wand to clean the spill. Only, he didn't have his wand on him. He barked a laugh at the thought, regretting it when the sound tore roughly through his throat and sent him into a fit of harsh, hacking coughs. Well, the bottle was still largely full – and wasn't it the simple pleasures of life that mattered?

 _Oh, send me an angel._

 _Cause I'm reaching out for something I can reach~_

 _Keep me from danger, finding comfort in my worries underneath._

 _Oh— If I cry before I fall, there'll be nothing left at all._

He wondered briefly, at what the world would think of him, their saviour reduced to a man. A muggle even, wandless as he was. A spark lit his chest at that, a remnant of the old twinge he used to get when he saw parents pick their children up at Primary School. It was an odd thought – for all that the wizarding world had done, for the salvation it had provided him at eleven, twelve, thirteen – he now _wanted_ to be a muggle. When had he finally snapped? When had the trials he had faced finally broken him – whose death marked the catalyst for his change of mind. Perhaps it was his own.

Or perhaps it wasn't a death at all. Just the power he wielded – would always wield. The lives he had taken and the hurt he had caused… he felt himself burning up inside, the same feeling he had when he had drunk bleach as a child – hoping, praying, to join the family he had never known. He had just wanted to be loved. He knew better now, far better than he would have wanted to know as the naïve child who didn't understand the consequence of death.

 _No one's going to come and save me._

If there was one thing Harry had rarely been accused of in his life, it was selfishness. How could he be? The papers were splashed with his face, his names, his deeds. "The Boy-Who-Lives Saves Us All" – a particularly well-sold article by Rita Skeeter, who had resumed her job as soon as she determined she would not be killed by a now-dead Dark Lord or his followers. Not to mention, the well-kept secret amongst those he was close with. An easily kept secret at that, as not many people would believe that someone who was so clearly alive had died.

He had. Died, that is, to save a world that didn't want him. A martyr – the epitome of selflessness. Maybe he should have been a Slytherin after all, for how well-kept the hatred in his heart was. A hatred born of selfishness at that. For Harry loved deeply, but his hate ran just as deep. In his worst days, he wondered what others would do if they found it, buried deep within his being. Would they try to erase it? Claim that he had no right to hate the dead – the dead that were in a better place than he would ever be. Or would they sigh, softly, telling him that he had every right to hate those who died for him. Who had sacrificed everything they had for him. Who were in a better place without him.

Death was a greater tragedy to the living than to the dead. The dead, after all, could never feel pain.

 _I've been strong, I'm standing tall, but I've been waiting on your call._

 _Cause I know you won't frustrate me._

 _After everything we've been through I can see, there's an angel just for me._

The bottle was empty. The song faded away, leaving him sitting in silence.

Dull green eyes continued to stare blankly ahead, drowning in memories of those who were left behind. Of Hedwig, his first friend. Of Fred, who brought laughter to a life that had known none. Of Dobby, who was loyal till the end. Their faces, their names, their voices… he thought about each and every life given for a peace that they wouldn't see.

And he wept.

* * *

 _A young boy of eleven stepped into a world of magic with nothing but a wand and an owl. It gave him everything he could have dreamed of, only at the cost of everything he had._

Fin.


End file.
